Losing to Paper
by pumkinteacup
Summary: Matt was speechless. The aggressive detail was raw and brutal, far worse than any fight he's been in. Reality handed him the hardest punch imaginable, and that was the truth.


Title: Losing to Paper

Author: pumkinteacup

Summary: Matt was speechless. The aggressive detail was raw and brutal, far worse than any fight he's been in. Reality handed him the hardest punch imaginable, and that was the truth.

It's raining on his way out, specks of water making it onto his glasses as he crosses the street, umbrella in hand and stick in the other. He manages fine despite anyone's insistence. He can take a beating (blind) and get back up the next day (blind), he can handle the rain.

The wind keeps changing and the rain keeps falling. The sun is curtained behind the clouds, begging for attention until the sky finally gives up, rests, and settles for a sprinkle. The clouds briefly part, allowing the sun to appear, and the loving sun shines down upon him. He takes a seat, tips his head back, and smiles, enjoys it.

He hears the faint sound of approaching footsteps, or squeaking rubber to be exact. Rain boots. He remembers the exact sound of wearing them himself as a kid. A woman, early twenties and soaking wet.

"Hi, I'm sorry. Do you mind if I sit here?" the woman asks.

"No, take a seat." He gestures.

"Thanks, raining cats and dogs out there," the woman shares as she places her bag onto the table. "Just need somewhere to dry off a bit. Went to a bookstore a few blocks from here, left my umbrella outside, like you're supposed to, and it gets stolen!" the girl exclaims.

"That's unfortunate."

"Right? Where's Daredevil when you need him?" the woman jokes.

And Matt chuckles. He'd honestly help if he could, but day job. Can't save everyone, umbrellas included. The woman grieves her lost, makes him laugh in the process. Their small talk is casual and calming. The woman is funny and endearing; her company bringing a type of chime only wind ornaments would on a windy day.

"Can I ask you something?"

And there it is.

"I haven't always been blind," Matt says.

"Oh," and the girl sounds taken back, "I was just going to ask what you were reading."

"Oh," and Matt is just as taken back because she's genuine. No faltered or racing heartbeat, just the truth. He smiles because it's refreshing, not having to explain what others believe to be is a disability or receive the same unnecessary pity he always does.

"Just some legal documents from work."

"Oh?" the girl is piped with interest, "What do you do?"

"I'm a lawyer."

"Cool," the woman stirs her frap, hazel nut drizzle dripping on the side. "For what firm?"

"Nelson and Murdock."

And there's a slight pause because she has no idea to what firm that is.

"I don't think I've heard of them before."

"We're fairly new," he explains. "Just a small practice a few blocks down. Still developing a cliental and reputation at the moment."

"Do you have a card?"

"As a matter of face," Matt retrieves his wallet, "I do."

"Thank you," she says once he hands it over, braille beneath the ink of his name (surprisingly his idea), "I'll make sure to keep this safe." She says as she puts it in her wallet.

"What do you do?" he asks.

The girl laughs, as if her job were the punch line to a joke. "I'll give you a guess. You know those cheesy birthday and get well cards they sell at convenient stores and pharmacies?"

"Yea?"

He can hear her nodding along with the sound of jewelry tangled in her hair, earrings. Her lips smack together in an embarrassed and shameful manner. "Yea," she says, her tone of voice giving everything away.

"You write greeting cards?" he asks surprised.

"Sadly," she laughs again and it's forced, as if it were the only way to cope with her revealed profession.

"What's that like?" he asks, curious.

"Um, repetitive? Boring. You just write the same universal stuff that's usually said on birthdays and anniversaries, 'I love you,' 'I don't know where I'll be without you,' Lada lada lada."

"Sounds like you're not too happy about that."

"I'm not but," the girl shrugs "It pays the bills. Just not really what I want to do, you know?"

Matt nods, he does know. He can remember before he put on the mask and dived into the night, the same restless and unachieved feeling of doing something that came with no results. When he would call in to a hotline to report something helpful, useful, anything to stop whatever incriminating, immoral thing from taking place, he didn't want to. He didn't want to report. He wanted to act.

"What do you really want to do?" he asks.

The girl smiles, modest and shy. "Write."

"How humble."

"I guess," she giggles and the sound of blood rushes to his ears, she's blushing. Foggy would roll his eyes at the sight, 'Not even the weather can protect the women of Hell's Kitchen from you!' he would tease.

"Do you have any idea what you look like?"

And Matt is taken back. The forwardness of this girl's nature is easy, and uplifting.

"I have an idea," he hesitates to say.

"I mean, of course you do. But do you know exactly what you look like," she says. " _Exactly_?" she emphasizes, body leaning forward and voice dropped to a whisper.

Matt shakes his head.

"Would you like to?"

And Matt is thrown off, because again, the honesty. She states this offer with such confidence as if the act were as easy as reciting the alphabet.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"Well," she starts, "I am a writer. Or, want to be anyway. Maybe we can put my writing skills to the test? Write what you look like and …. read it to you after?" she trails off as if now regretting the suggestion.

"That's unnecessary," he says because it is. He's only known the girl for not even an hour and to be offered such a thing feels strangely like an 'I love you' after the first date. "I couldn't ask someone I've just met to do that."

"Oh please, I'm offering." And she dismisses the concern with a wave. "It's no biggie, I want to," and there's the returning uncertainty, "if that's ok?"

And Matt, like he does with everybody else who wants to help, indulges them.

"Knock yourself out."

There are a few moments of silence after a thrilled but nervous, 'Yay! Ok.' The girl searches in her bag. Its leather and old, purchased from a vintage store that's too fond of sage and incense. After she's pulled out a pen and paper he listens to the small space between them filling with the soft sound of pen dancing across paper. Her strokes are nice and long, cursive composed of long L's that continue with dips that connect to its neighboring letter.

The ink is weak and running out. The sound of jungled instruments of the pen jolt with a force that come from the girl shaking it, seeking more paint to bring to life the picture she's trying so hard to create. Her gaze flickers upon him repeatedly; trying to capture every detail he thinks she thinks will help bring any satisfaction of the mystery of his appearance.

Matt shifts uncomfortably as the girl's gaze returns upon him. Goose bumps rise on his arms and the hair on his skin stand stiff, it's unsettling. It feels what he imagines an ant would feel if suffering the boredom and cruelty of a child's magnifying glass.

He's grateful she doesn't have one; he's already breaking into sweat. The whole situation feels intimate like putting himself on display as a painting for someone to admire. He couldn't be more grateful to not be a masterpiece.

He gets the feeling the people walking past take the girl as an artist, sketching him into exaggerated features and expressions. He remembers seeing the same drawings being done on the boardwalk as a kid. They all looked silly and outrageous, nothing like the people that inspired them.

There's a pause of movement.

"Would it be alright if you took off your glasses?" she asks, "I'm almost done. I just need," hands move in the air, "to see to finish."

Matt nods.

Her reaction is predictable and expected. It's precisely the reason he wears glasses, the vacant and blank stare he can't control that make others uncomfortable. He's never apologized for that, can't feel guilt for something you can't control. He understands that it perhaps feels like an uninvited look into something private, something people believe they have no right to look into.

She stares and once again, the magnifying glass feeling intensifies.

"Thank you."

He nods.

The small rumble of clouds brings the warning of new rain. He'll be inside in his office by the time that'll happen, he's got time. He waits patiently for the girl to finish, listens to the sound of change hitting the floor, someone plugging their laptop in, a toilet being flushed, and the screeching tires of a taxi stopping in time before hitting someone. The honk is loud and obnoxious, followed by 'I'm walkin' hear! I'm walkin' hear!'

He wonders what's he's going to be told. He knows he'll never be satisfied with words he's been well acquainted with. It was everything he's been introduced to from the many others who've offered the same thing the girl in front of him has.

He knows what's going to be shared won't surprise him. It's all stuff he felt for himself as he got older. He's got an image just like from the other times he's touched the faces of those he's had no idea look like.

He's spent enough time alone touching the smooth planes of his face to feel the consistent straight lines that followed the sides of his face down to the very bottom of his chin. He knew of the deep but soft creases that appeared when he smiled. Whether they were laugh lines or dimples, he's been told they're charming. The uneven crooked shaped of his nose when he's run his finger down its profile, the flat surface of its end where it should be round, and the flare curve of his lips where it begins.

Sometimes he wonders if he looks like his father. He knows he doesn't have his eyes, they were green. Must of gotten them from his mother but that's a different story.

The girl is done, she shuffles her papers and he knows he's in for a treat. The girl makes a show of clearing her throat and sitting up straight. The girl begins and as usual, he is told what he's discovered for himself. He of course doesn't share that; he's polite and stays quiet, listening intently until,

" … his eyes. They were no eyes of a man, but those that belonged to a boy. For these eyes were not only dim and guarded, they were most importantly wounded. Despite their rich and dark color, these eyes held more than just the obscure and vague expression one would mistake for blindness, no, for these eyes exposed and betrayed its owner of the painful past and secrets that lived in his heart. There was a devil," Matt held his breath, "and an angel. Battling for the right for something they had no claim to. There was an ambition, rage, only the devil could be proud of, goodness and light an angel would admire. His soul was powerful and blinding, a beacon, calling forth the two halves that made him whole. But there was an imbalance, a tipping side outweighing the other to seek full control. The angel was kind and sweet, forgiving with sweet prayers and trusting faith / But the devil had a beauty, a beauty like no other. A fire, red and striking, like the fork of its tail that encouraged a rage that matched its own. But the man resisted, fighting the temptation he knew deep down would be his freedom. 'Surrender,' the devil chanted, 'surrender.' But he refused, fought it like a ship with a storm. But with each restraint came the hesitance that could only be the beginning of the end. But it would be long before that would be. But the devil could wait," the girl says "he was patient."

Matt was speechless. The aggressive detail was raw and brutal, far worse than any fight he's been in. Reality handed him the hardest punch imaginable, and that was the truth. He was the devil at night, but that was only a mask, a disguise. He and the devil were not one in the same.

But he couldn't deny that side. The side that wanted to proceed with the blows, the punishment and justice that came from turning the world to shit, invading it with evil and darkness. But there was a part of him that wanted to take part in that cruelty, continue with the blows. To seek answers, _blood._

Sometimes he didn't want to stop, was that him, or the devil?

"That bad, huh?" the girl asks.

Matt jumps, startled, and interrupted from his train of thought. "No, I'm sorry. It's just," he doesn't know where to start, can't find the words and settles for, "You got that from one look?"

The girl smirks, "Sometimes its one look is all you need."


End file.
